Aubrey’s little bit about writing

I used to be a writer.

I used to be able to sit down and write something decent and meaningful, a poem or journal entry that expressed my emotions and feelings so clearly and concisely. Any random stranger who didn’t know a thing about me could at least have an idea as to what was on my mind, and could then sympathize with the words I had written.

Somewhere down the line, my writing changed direction.

Years of writing when inspiration struck, of me scrambling to find any shred of paper so I could write down a fleeting thought before I forgot what had struck me in the first place has turned into me half-assedly scribbling down thoughts while my linear algebra professor babbles something about vectors and writes proofs on the board.

I never make time for writing. Most of the time I’m rushing through my words, hoping to be able to write everything down, not caring about how I sound. Even now, I catch myself doing this, just wanting to get this bit of writing over with to reach some unknown destination. Why do I want to get this done so quickly?

(I wrote the above in class on this date. I just felt like putting it in, just because.)